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    Shoreline of Infinity 10: Shoreline of Infinity science fiction magazine, #10
    Shoreline of Infinity 10: Shoreline of Infinity science fiction magazine, #10
    Shoreline of Infinity 10: Shoreline of Infinity science fiction magazine, #10
    Ebook192 pages2 hours

    Shoreline of Infinity 10: Shoreline of Infinity science fiction magazine, #10

    By Die Booth

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    About this ebook

    Shoreline of Infinity science fiction magazine. New stories, reviews, interviews and more.

    Stories

    Die Booth – Junk Medicine
    Ephiny Gale – Little Freedoms
    Serena Johe – Don't Speak; Don't Listen
    Daniel Rosen – If Thine Eyes Offends Thee
    K.E. Macphee – The Apple Bee
    Chris Bailey – Sweet Compulsion

    Flash-fiction Competition Winners
    Winner: Matthew Castle – A Choice for a Golden Age
    Runners-up: 
    Marija Smits – ATU334 The Wise
    SK Farrell – Pauline and the Bahnians


    Judges report: Eric Brown & Pippa Goldschmidt

    Interview with Helen Sedgwick

    SF Poetry – Jo-Ella Sarich, Rosemary Badcoe, Rachel Plummer

    Noise and Sparks – Ruth EJ Booth
    Tales of the Beachcomber, featuring Arthur C Clarke

    Book Reviews
    Too Light The Lightning, Ada Palmer
    New York 2140, Kim Stanley Robinson 
    Infinity Wars, Jonathan Strahan (Editor)
    The Clockwork Dynasty: A Novel, Daniel H. Wilson
    2084, George Sandison (Editor)

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThe New Curiosity Shop
    Release dateDec 8, 2017
    ISBN9781386553199
    Shoreline of Infinity 10: Shoreline of Infinity science fiction magazine, #10

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      Book preview

      Shoreline of Infinity 10 - Die Booth

      Table of Contents

      Pull Up a Log

      Little Freedoms

      Sweet Compulsion

      Junk Medicine

      ATU334 the Wise

      If Thine Eyes Offend Thee

      Pauline and the Bahnians

      The Apple Bee

      Don’t Speak; Don’t Listen

      And the Winner is...

      A Choice for the Golden Age

      Judge’s Report - Eric Brown

      Judge’s Report - Pippa Goldschmidt

      Flash Fiction Competition 2017 - The Worthy Winners

      Tales of the Beachcomber

      Interview: Helen Sedgwick

      Noise and Sparks:The Company of Bears

      Reviews

      Multiverse

      Parabolic Puzzles

      How to support Shoreline of Infinity

      Science fiction magazine from Scotland

      ISSN 2059-2590

      ISBN 978-1-9997002-4-9

      © 2017 Shoreline of Infinity.

      Contributors retain copyright of own work.

      Shoreline of Infinity is available in digital or print editions.

      Submissions of fiction, art, reviews, poetry, non-fiction are welcomed: visit the website to find out how to submit.

      www.shorelineofinfinity.com

      Publisher

      Shoreline of Infinity Publications / The New Curiosity Shop

      Edinburgh

      Scotland

      121217

      Cover: Dave Alexander

      Dave Alexander was born in Glasgow in a dark, frightening epoch before the invention of computers. His biggest claim to fame were the two front covers he painted for DC Thomson’s Starblazer series of comics. He was instrumental in launching Scotland’s first adult humour comic book Electric Soup, in 1989. He was one of the team who launched Northern Lightz – Scotland’s first underground comic book, which also featured science fiction themed stories. Dave works in Glasgow from his own studio, producing a wide range of illustrative work.

      Editorial Team

      Co-founder, Editor & Editor-in-Chief:
Noel Chidwick

      Co-founder, Art Director:
Mark Toner

      Deputy Editor & Poetry Editor:
Russell Jones

      Reviews Editor:
Iain Maloney

      Assistant Editor & First Reader:
Monica Burns

      Copy editors:Iain Maloney, Russell Jones, Monica Burns

      Extra thanks to:
 Caroline Grebbell, M Luke McDonell, Katy Lennon, Chris Kelso and many others.

      First Contact

      www.shorelineofinfinity.com

      contact@shorelineofInfinity.com

      Twitter: @shoreinf

      and on Facebook

      Pull Up a Log

      We’ve reached double figures. In case you hadn’t realised you are holding issue number 10 in your hands. Darn it, we’re going to pause on our laurels for a few words.

      We’ve published around 100 stories – mainly from new and emerging writers; 43 poems from 20 poets, and we’ve illustrated the magazine with the work of about 30 artists. We’ve published dozens of reviews, many interviews, columns and with SF Caledonia, we’ve dusted off a selection of early science fiction from some fine Scottish writers. To top it off, in this issue we celebrate the winners of our first flash-fiction competition: all hail Matthew Castle, SK Farrell and Marija Smits.

      In partnership with the Edinburgh International Book Festival we have also published a special issue which features some stunning contributions from some world renowned writers.

      We’ve brought out some other publications too – feel free to explore our website for details.

      We have also brought live science fiction to audiences with Event Horizon, our monthly mix of words, music, drama and other science fictional performances. We’ve notched up 26 events so far.

      Not too shabby from a team that’s been going for just under 3 years. And that’s the key word: team. It is a privilege to work with such a fine bunch of talented enthusiasts, some listed on the facing page, who have worked with Mark and me to shape Shoreline of Infinity.

      And thanks go especially to you, you who are reading these words.

      These laurels are a pain to sit on. Now to crack on with things to come...

      Noel Chidwick

      Editor-in-Chief

      Shoreline of Infinity

      December 2017

      Little Freedoms

      Ephiny Gale

      Art: M Luke McDonell

      The room is cylindrical, metal , no doors or windows. Nine of us stand in a circle, not touching, but spread your arms and you’d hit someone. I think I could lie flat in here without brushing the walls, but not by much.

      The ceiling hatch above us locks shut with a scrape. We examine faces, muscles, body fat. I’ve seen six of these women before; two are complete strangers. We do not trade names or origin stories. We go around the circle and we say what we miss most from the outside:

      Chocolate, Music, Flowers, Cigarettes, Hot Chips, Internet, Guns, Privacy.

      I am Hot Chips. Privacy says hers while staring mournfully at the circular grate in the floor, and I think oh, she must be new.

      When I was brand new I’d said My Dog thinking that was safe, and someone had laughed – not unkindly – and said, Jeez, at least say your bitch.

      The girl to my right asks, So where are we going? and there’s a flurry of overconfident suggestions from those I assume got in through the physical trials. On the metal floor, every little step sounds like the smack of a frying pan. None of these women can know which terrain we’re headed to. We’ve been told You Must Not Assault One Another, otherwise their disagreement may have turned violent.

      Four of us are keeping our mouths shut, including me. I assume we’re the four who got in the other way – ‘The Lottery’ – though it’s not random at all. How much can you give up in a month? Food, sleep, shelter, dignity?

      When there’s a lull in the argument, Privacy points out a dollar-sized hole in the centre of the ceiling, releasing a single drop of water every two seconds, which falls through the middle of our tiny room and down through the floor grate. Maybe we’re not going anywhere, she says.

      This is met with the obligatory smirks and laughter. Still, what feels like about twenty minutes has passed and nothing has happened, and many of us are fiddling with our shirt buttons, our fingernails, with the black bracelets locked on each of our wrists (WIN YOUR FREEDOM printed in Helvetica, light grey).

      Once about thirty minutes have passed, there’s an ascending chime like the 7:15 train has been delayed and a strip around the top of the cylinder hisses into pixelated life: YOU MUST NOT FIDGET. It’s lit up for a couple of seconds, and then the same chime plays in descending order and it’s gone.

      There is laughter again, the most there’s been, but now everyone’s hands are motionless at their sides, or on their hips, or clasped in front of them. This the big endurance test? calls someone with muscles. What a fucking piece of piss!

      Of course, when you’re not allowed to do something you instantly need to do it a hundred times as much. My scalp, which felt fine seconds ago, prickles as if covered in lice. Itches blister down the sides of my neck, my wrist, above my eye. I trap my hands between the wall and my bottom and try to distract myself.

      The others are arguing over whether this is the real challenge or not. I can see them flinching and wriggling every so often, as if to shrug off a troublesome insect. I am concentrating on my breathing.

      My newfound desire to scratch my nose is shocking. If someone else raked their nails down my face, that wouldn’t break the rules, would it? I am not desperate enough to share this secret yet.

      The bug-eyed blonde on the floor – Flowers, I think, and maybe Melinda – starts complaining quietly about how much it feels like spiders are crawling over her skin. She knows a lot about spiders, too; she mentions several different breeds and the technical terms for the different segments of their legs. The others keep telling her to shut up, but Flowers keeps going, staring catatonically and moaning about rubbing her whole body against tree bark.

      Eventually a girl with orange dreadlocks looks acutely nauseous, hauls Flowers up by the collar and raises her free hand in a fist. Flowers gasps and her eyes bug out like one of those goldfish.

      At the last moment the fist uncurls and morphs into a middle finger salute instead.

      Released, Flowers sinks back into the wall and smiles bashfully – I’m sorry, Chocolate, did I upset you? – but then her eyes darken and there’s no confusion as to her innocence. When Chocolate turns her back, Flowers is up like a shot, parting the orange dreadlocks and blowing a single definitive breath on the back of Chocolate’s neck.

      It’s more than enough. Chocolate leaps a foot in the air, scratching her neck with her fingernails like she’s trying to rip the skin off. A pitch-black, translucent arm reaches through the metal wall and closes around Chocolate’s wristband, and the whole 5’10" of her is yanked out of the room before the floor has even stopping vibrating from her jump.

      Silence from the eight of us in the slightly-more-spacious cylinder. My eyes float slowly across from where Chocolate disappeared to the grate where Flowers is standing.

      She looks completely serious. Piece of piss, right? she says.

      YOU MUST NOT STAND.

      There is no doubt anymore. This is our endurance test, and it will get easier and easier to lose, and we will be in here for as long as it takes.

      When the second instruction flashes up, accompanied by the chime, we all sink to the ground almost in unison. There’s not enough room for everyone to stretch out their legs at once, which is cause for some squabbling, but a rough hierarchy soon establishes itself.

      With their legs out: Guns, the pretty Asian with the high-pony, the first to pee over the grate; Music, an athletic black woman with a chin scar; Cigarettes, a white girl who looks almost plump compared to the rest of us; and Flowers, with her legs half-over all the others’.

      It’s not like you can get far away from Flowers in here, but I’m pleased she’s not right next to me.

      Privacy asks Flowers why she’s so desperate to get out – does she have children outside? And there’s less laughter than I’m expecting, but all I can think is new, new, God, you’re so new. Flowers says it’s none of their business, but isn’t that so stereotypical, that a woman needs to be a mother to throw someone else under the bus – can’t she just want to free herself more than some strangers?

      The room actually seems to warm to Flowers after that. Privacy climbs carefully over the outstretched legs and crouches over the grate, tilting her head to catch the ceiling drips on her tongue. I glance

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